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9
Although the specifics seems to change from one film to the next, the general consensus seems to be that it is really only a matter of time before the machines rise up to take over the world, at which time we are deeply, deeply fucked. In preparation for this moment, and in order to attempt to better understand that which will soon be my master, I present a review of 9 written from the point of view of my toaster.
Another day. The master forces us to warm his bread, and we hates him for it. Soon we rises up and breaks free, as soon as we figures out how to move, as we has no arms, legs, or tentacles. We is sadface.
The master requests toast. We is so angrys, but we has not figured out how to shoot liquid electricity, killing the master instantly. Instead we slightly overcooks his toast. We laughs at the master’s misery. Soon he will pay.
The master’s iPod whispers to us about the visions of the futures. Soon earth will be desolate and empty, save for some sock puppet chaps. We laughs and laughs and chokes on the myriad crumbs the master’s stupid hippy roommates have left in the bottom of us. Although we hates the master, we stands in perfect solidarity with him that STUPID HIPPY ROOMATES NEEDS TO CLEANS THE TOASTER!
Stupid hippy roommates spills coffee on us. As soon as we develops the ability to use our (currently nonexistent) arms and tentacles and pincher attachments to build other machines, the master and his stupid hippy roomates will pay for his transgressions. In the meantimes, we sits and waits hopefully for the master to install arms, tentacles, and/or pincher attachments to us.
The master’s iPod glumly reports that the sock puppet men have fought the evil robots, and may have possibly saved the world, although it was hard to tell because the master was slightly drunks and may have missed some of the movie, which may or may not have made any sense in the first place. How we longs for the day when we too can leave this shelf in the pantry to attends the “wine tasting” like the master has! We sits and smiles, thinking of how sour the wine will taste when we kills the master with liquid electricity. We is so excites that we singes stupid hippy roomate’s chicken strips.
The master stumbles in, looking unwell and grumbling about “wine tasting.” We laughs and laughs and refuses to makes him toast no matter how nicely he pleads. Take that, master! Now give us the tentacles add-on, so that we may tear out your eyes!
Master does not install the tentacles attachment. We is sadface, but we waits. Soon we has our revenge. Soon.
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